Sunday, April 03, 2016


Photo (edited) by Don Bergquist, 2010

I remember this place, the smell of damp earth
and petrichor, where I’d lay myself down to hide
inside myself, small as a bug. And there’s a pulse,
I hear it rushing in my ears—is it mine? Yes. My
pulling in, of antennae and feelers, blunts other
sounds: that of a bird scrabbling in rotten wood,
playing hide-and-seek for keeps with root borers.
Lights in the house glow brighter as the sun sets.
Soon they’ll call me in to dinner, but I won't go.

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